Erik 1881
by JessieBell10000
Summary: You know Susan Kay's Phantom, yea, well I took the part where Erik and Christine change POV's and just turned it into my own spin on Erik's thoughts. R&R please, no flames...


Disclaimer - You must realize I had to write a book report that was limited to 10 pages and I had to write about a whole section of Susan Kay's version of POTO. Also, I had to write it from another characters point-of-view so I chose Erik, even though he did narrate a little in the section. Please no flames, I just wanted to put my report on the internet so if you like it R&R and if you don't you can leave this fanfic with someone else's take on it.  
  
It was the spring of 1881. My opera house that I had slaved over for ten years was becoming one of the most celebrated buildings in all of Paris. Then, that girl showed up. She was the center of my living world and ruined my life. But I am getting ahead of myself.  
  
Christine Daae had the voice of an angel but the heart of a mouse. For months on end I would listen to that humble little chorus girl practice from the sanctity of my hidden passages. Then, she revealed a piece of information that was crucial to getting closer to my angel.  
  
Her father, Philippe Daae, had died and left her with only the legend of "The Angel of Music." One day as she prayed she called to her angel to reply. Being a master ventriloquist it was not a large feat to throw my voice into the room and for months I tutored the girl as "her angel." Finally, she was appointed the role of Marguerite in Faust, while the current Marguerite, Carlotta, had taken "ill" with a little help from yours truly.  
  
After her astounding performance of "The Jewel Song" my precious student fainted and was rushed back to her dressing room where I would later confess my true feelings.  
  
But, then he showed up. The Viscomte Raoul de Chagny, a boyish fop with no common sense in him. He barged into the room as if he were the hero in an ancient Greek tale. He wouldn't take his leave until personally asked by Miss Daae. In fact, he didn't leave the dressing room at all; when it had appeared he left Raoul was only standing outside the door spying on the woman he claimed to love.  
  
All I said to Christine was true that night. The angels did weep when they heard her sing. Tears flowed down my monstrosity of a face, the curse I was born with that would let not a sole look upon me with compassion, and least of all love. "I gave you my soul and I am dead," are the words she spoke to me. If only I had her sole, matters later on would have proved more in my favor, but I see no reason to rush my tale.  
  
Being as resolute as I was to have Christine as my bride it was also a devilishly bad thought. I must have been almost 30 years her senior, but was in prime physical condition. I had the physique of a man half my age and the intelligence of one four times my age, but alas, the face of a monster. The Viscomte proved to me a challenge, he was rich and handsome, proving to be an obstacle in the way of my ultimate goal. I decided it was time to take drastic measures as to preserve Christine's love for me.  
  
As I explained things to her she fainted again and I took her through her mirror to my underground house. I had a deep interest in mirrors for they could be torturous instruments, allowing one to do a multitude of things. I could make the room seem to spin and I could lure my angel into my grasp. Carrying her down stairs I took her on Caesar, a horse I had "borrowed" from the Opera's stable. Upon reaching the underground lake that I had constructed ten years prior I lifted the terrified girl into a small rowboat and brought her to my home. I had an extra room, for what I am not quite sure, as I was never to have any company, but I brought her in and laid her on the bed. Leaving her to sleep I sat in the other room with a certain feeling of longing for the emotion which life had taught me that I would never receive, love. I wanted to be loved more than anything at that point, but I was too blinded by unconditional love and hope to see that she would never love me.  
  
The next morning she awoke to find my cat, Ayesha, on her bed. A rare prize was Ayesha. She was a Siamese cat, only two years old, brought to Europe from Bangkok. On her neck was the collar I had stolen from the palace cat in Persia. It was solid gold with jewels encrusted in it. Ayesha most likely realized that this person in my home was competition for attention and she despised Christine as Christine did her. It was almost as though Ayesha was a human, having all the emotions of a person, aside from fear of the ugly and misunderstood. Christine had too much of both of those traits, hate and intolerance.  
  
When Christine finally settled down enough to have civil conversation I presented her with a plain wedding band and if she ever married she would lose my gift forever (I was still using ventriloquism through the walls.) She graciously agreed and we went through the aria from Aida. Ayesha hissed and spat at her through the whole aria making Christine even more uneasy that she already was. I fought with myself for a long time, should I show her or should I hide longer? I found that my recently developed conscience had led me down a less desired path.  
  
I walked into her room and for a moment she looked at me in shock and fainted. I ignored it, because, after all, she had thought I was a supernatural being up until that point. As she rested I played the organ that I had placed in the room. I thought she was asleep, I thought that she wouldn't be so cruel but I was wrong. She snuck up on me and ripped the mask from my face. My power and dignity was stripped from me as my mask was. Enraged I stood up to my full height and spoke, "Is this what you wanted to see? Well look! Look!" I was raving mad as I took her hands and made her fingernails dig into my flesh. She screamed in horror, a sound I had known as a child in a gypsy encampment as a sideshow. I was about to grab her throat but then I looked into her blue eyes, she was terrified of me. Feeling a rush of shame I sat on the floor in front of her and begged her forgiveness. She did, after a good deal of begging, accept my apology and a great weight was lifted off my shoulders.  
  
I quickly released her back to the opera house for a spell so no one would get suspicious and I hated to see her afraid of me. I saw terror and hate in her eyes that gaze of hate that was only known to me because of my mother. I watched her go back and returned to the solitude of my home and wept tears of sadness on her part, she was so young and beautiful while I was old and ugly! God! How I was cursed from the moment of my birth.  
  
For another week her "angel," now actually known to her as Erik, tutored her for another performance of Faust. There was a travesty that I should never forget. Since Debienne and Poligny retired the new managers, Moncharmin and Richard, were making a travesty of all my fine work. First they stole my private box, which of course is none other than box five, for it has the best view. Then, they have to audacity to fire Madame Giry, my box attendant who is very kind and I saw that her daughter was promoted to the first row in the corps de ballet. The corps de ballet, now that I think of it most of them were silly little girls who liked to be frightened by the idea of a ghost.  
  
Anyone of them who happened to chance upon me would tell the others of their "life or death" encounters with the opera ghost. Little Jammes was always sputtering out tales that she would concoct before practice and I especially took a liking to her as a little puppet in my games with the managers. I stole a hair comb, "It must be the ghost!" were the girl's replies. Soon the whole opera house was under my control, except the idiots they called managers.  
  
Finally as the next production of Faust was about to go underway I left a series of notes stating my request. I had very few, a personal box for my disposal, my old box attendant, 240,000 francs to help my only contact to the outside world, and lastly to have my dear Christine play Marguerite. They ignored my requests and I waged war, but not before going to Perros to play for my angel, student, and true love.  
  
It was the anniversary of her poor father's death and her only wish was for an angel to play on her father's violin. It was no large task for me to play a violin. Her blind faith would let her believe it was an angel playing for her. Then he showed himself at the graveyard Perros. He ran up to her and disturbed her prayers. Then, he spoke of how he loved her and worshiped her. How could he love her? He didn't even know her, well in all reality he knew her as a child, but after twelve years apart I cannot see how his childish infatuation could carry over that long. He spoke to her and the jealousy set in upon me. I could have, and should have jumped out and killed the boy that very instant but Christine prevented me from going through with the awful and murderous thoughts that encircled my mind.  
  
Hiding behind one of the larger shines I took out of all my frustration and grief upon my violin softly playing a lullaby that Christine often spoke of as a memory of her father. Louder and louder I played, the frustration and grief swelled and seized becoming profound in my music. I finished my piece and quickly retired to my dwellings at a small local in.  
  
But, I did not leave soon enough. I heard him speak of how he heard me in her dressing room and how he madly stalked about raving on how she was a double-crossing lover and how she betrayed him. Betrayed him? He knew nothing of real betrayal, being shunned by your own mother is betrayal, being caged and treated as an animal by an obese gypsy was betrayal, giving your trust to an old man and then having to show what you had to hide forever was betrayal! All of these things I had done and regret with a passion. But nonetheless, I was again listening to the naïve Viscomte speak of things that he did not know. Christine slapped him across the face, smartly I must say, and trudged through the snow.  
  
She was staying in the same inn as I was and what a surprise it was to me when we met in the lobby. She spotted me and I attempted to ignore her, but my mind screamed at me to look at her and take in every last speck of her beauty. He pale skin was even whiter as she had been out in the cold, but her lips were as red as the blood that flowed through her chilled body. She wore a blue velvet cape and you could see were Raoul had grabbed her shoulders, once in loving embrace then again in hateful distrust, in fact, now that I think about it, Raoul and I had one thing in common, an unruly temper, mine being a slight bit more deadly, but I must remember years of isolation from human contact can do strange things to one's mind.  
  
Her immaculate white gown gave off that childlike innocence that I had overestimated in my boldness to bring her to my home. Her cheeks puffed and her eyes narrowed as she saw me. "Christine," I called trying to be cheerful. She just stared at me for a moment and then stormed up to her room and seconds after she departed I made my way to my room. The room was chilly and damp, but it was nothing compared to the cellars of the opera house. After that display I decided to do something terrible. I now regret it, but it felt right at the moment.  
  
Upon returning to my home I decided to give Christine the metaphorical cold shoulder. My lack of interest in her lessons distressed her further than anyone could have imagined. She would go to her dressing room and cry "Poor Erik, poor poor Erik!" At first these words seemed a reward, a sign that she was coming around. The logical part of my brain told me that it was only pity that caused her to mourn my apparent absence. But, my emotional brain concluded that she was coming around and would love me. Unfortunately my emotional brain had taken over that part of my life.  
  
Soon the next performance was upon me and I had plans arranged. The management had been warned prior to the performance and ignored what I had told them. Letting La Carlotta sing was the biggest mistake they would ever make. She was in the middle of act III when I decided to play the first trick of the evening, causing her to croak like the frog she truly was. Several times I through my voice to make it seem as though it were her. I chuckled to myself and then it was time for my grand finale! "She's singing to bring the house down!" I whispered through the whole crowd, then without notice I dropped the chandelier upon the head of the woman who was to become the new box keeper. The managers now knew I was not a "ghost" to be tangled with. After that I abducted Christine back to my lodgings and kept her there for several days.  
  
Above me the young Viscomte was frantically searching for his "lost love," while I was down in the cellars trying to stop her from killing herself. I had to return to the surface for no more than an hour but then when I returned she had smashed her head against the wall in a valiant effort to kill herself. It did not work and only proved to cause a pounding sensation in her head. Ayesha was agitated at the return of Miss Daae and showed it by rubbing her head against my hand as I composed and demanding the attention that I knew Christine secretly wanted.  
  
Ayesha and Christine constantly battled for my attention. Finally, I concluded that Christine needed me far more than my usually independent cat. I found that Christine had warmed up to me as a person. She could look at me without my mask and in a futile attempt to get closer to her I accidentally pushed her away. She ignored me for days on end. I tried to gain her confidence back but as soon as I stopped trying and she pursued me. Her blue eyes shone with a look I only remembered from the women of the Persian harem. She startled me and I looked at her in confusion. She flung the mask from my face and showed me passion that I never knew I could experience. After she finished showing me what I had never known as a person I felt compelled to compose.  
  
I had lost myself in my music for what seemed an eternity. Composing was a way to relieve myself from emotional pain that I suffered, and at this point extreme joy. I had become cynical and named my opera, "Don Juan Triumphant." It hurt my heart to play those melancholy notes, but it also brought upon me a sensation of everlasting relief, like morphine coursing through the labyrinth of vessels that winded through my body. My music bit at the soul and made you want to cry with despair and regret, but it was also more beautiful than any human being could ever hear. I had given Christine the opportunity to hear the music of my soul, caustic and cold, yet soft and sensual. She seemed at a loss when I played. Her eyes would open wide and she would belt out unknown phrases and words she thought would fit the music. It was the only form of communication we had for twelve days and then returning her to the surface proved to be something I had to do.  
  
Raoul called upon her again and again before the masked ball. Christine was going to wear a black domino while I found that Raoul would be wearing a white domino. I would make my grand appearance as The Red Death. My face looked remarkably like a skull except for the veins so I did not need my mask. It was a bit ironic as it was a masked ball and I required no mask. If I had all my mental faculties at the time I would have found that rather amusing, but alas I was malicious and insane with love.  
  
Christine brought Raoul to a secluded spot thinking I had not noticed at all, but I was The Red Death, a force not to be reckoned with. Then, as I was enjoying how well my angel was telling off the young bachelor she said, "In the name of our love!" I never came closer to the blind rage and murderous feeling that I had not known for years until that point. She loved him. I started to shake with violent sobs that were inaudible to others. I traveled back to my home and cried to myself as I composed a piece of music that with every note emitted pain and sadness. I worked for hours trying to forget, but the words rang through my head. Her bell-like voice popped every vein in my head causing a pain that I never knew, a rather new heartache of sorts.  
  
With the immense anger, sadness, and remorse that welded in my soul burst out into a plan that I thought would make Christine mine. I put out a series of notes to further Christine into her singing and with a certain bit of pride I listened through the walls of the manager's office as they concluded it be best not to go back on my orders.  
  
My plan was proving to be most successful already and the veil over my eyes made me blind to what was truly going to happen. As I kidnapped Christine mid-performance the opera house broke out into frenzy. People rushed around looking for the disappeared diva. Then, Nadir the Daroga, or Persian head of police, lead that boy right for my home. They took a different root and ended up in a torture chamber that proved most useful at the time.  
  
I designed it so that I could make the heat of an average day in the Sahara but my mirrors would make the room appear to be an endless desert. I then showed Christine two idols that if she turned one, the thousands of barrels of gunpowder underneath my home would explode, but if she turned the other water would flow in forever damaging the powder. To my satisfaction she turned the one that triggered the water, but also meant that she would become my wife! I had succeeded, or so I thought. I finally decided to let the Daroga and Viscomte out of the chamber as Christine pleaded with me to not kill them.  
  
Then, the moment of truth was upon me. I could not and would not keep my angel against her will in the subterranean paradise I constructed for myself. This revelation was assuredly not self-induced. For the first time in my life I had been shown kindness and compassion, Christine flung my mask off my deformed face and kissed my misshapen lips to show me I was not alone in the world. Tears spilled down my cheeks as she backed away from me. I let them go. "Go!" I told them, "Go! Be free to love!" I said with sadness that I would not ever feel again, but felt numerous times in my life. Before she left she slid the little gold ring off her finger and handed it back to me and turned away without another word. The Daroga remained behind as I explained to him what had happened and why I was dying.  
  
It had not even been five minutes and I was already mourning the loss of my Christine. I clutched the ring like if I let it go I would die. The sensation of that kiss lingered upon my lips much longer than I would have ever thought. As I explained what had been happening to me the Daroga and I both feel silent in tears. He felt sympathy for me, and that was all I wanted, someone to listen to me, to share the sadness that I had felt all alone for my life. I collapsed upon Christine's bed in despair. My bloody tears stained the pillows but I did not care. I wished for death, at this point I longed for it as an escape of a lifetime of pain. The sheets smelled of her perfume and the pillows smelled of lavender, like her hair. A wave of shock flowed over me as I finally realized that she was gone, never to return to me, except if she decided to keep the last promise she made me.  
  
After Nadir left me in my home I reflected upon my experiences and how from the earliest point in my life that I was doomed, doomed to venture to the farthest corners of the Earth and never once be loved. From Boucherville, to Russia, to Rome, Persia, and then finally Paris I knew nothing but cold unbridled hate, a life which no mortal should not and will not ever live again. I knew brutality better than other soul on the Earth. For almost five years I was paraded around Russia as a member in a Gypsy caravan. In a cage I scared women and children, but then amazed them with my ventriloquism and magic. But, that is nothing now, my past is a part of me which I want to forget, it is the present and Christine was my savior and my killer. In the beginning she saved me from a life of no emotion, other than anger. In the end she killed me from the emotion that no one ever showed, she gave me life and took it away. As I pen these words my eyes tear at the thought of my angel, but I am glad she is happy and wherever she is I hope she thinks of her "Poor Erik."  
  
Three years later I published an add in the Époque, "Erik is Dead." That was my obituary; it was rather odd to read my own obituary. I paced the parlor wondering what Christine would do when she read my obituary. Would she return like she promised? Would she bring the child that had resulted from my one and only night? I hoped to see the child; I wanted to know what had happened to him or her. I had only known Christine was pregnant because I frequently saw her and her swelling stomach wandering the theatre after I promised to leave them be.  
  
How did I know it was my child you ask? Simply because of a dream, a dream that I knew would not come true; Christine, our child, and I all basking in the glorious subterranean kingdom I had created. But I realize now that is what it will always be, a dream, a fantasy destined to never come true. But before I leave this manuscript to rot on my desk for all of eternity I must say those four words that saved me from an eternity of wandering around half-human and half-phantom, Christine, I love you.  
  
Fin 


End file.
